


The Pros and Cons of Snakeitude

by freyjawriter24



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Great Good Omens Snake-Off, I have Thoughts about celestial wings and their presence on Earth, Kinda, M/M, Snake Crowley (Good Omens), St. Patrick's Day, and now also Crowley's snake form too, so I guess... meta?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-17
Updated: 2020-03-17
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:55:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23189584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/freyjawriter24/pseuds/freyjawriter24
Summary: Crowley has always been able to transform into a snake, even after the celestials stopped being able to spread their wings on Earth, but he’s always hidden it from Aziraphale. Until a slip-up results in the angel walking in on him in his animal form...aka Crowley is insecure and Aziraphale tells him he loves him, including as a snake.-----Started writing this a while ago but I'm finally posting it now for the Great Good Omens Snake-Off on St Patrick's Day (17th March).
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 11
Kudos: 192
Collections: The Snake Pit





	The Pros and Cons of Snakeitude

**Author's Note:**

> Massive thank you to [marlynnofmany](https://marlynnofmany.tumblr.com/) on tumblr for the brilliant title for this fic! (Honourable mention to 'Love Thyself', a close runner-up.)

You could spot Crowley in a crowd from a mile away. It wasn’t the bright hair that did it – although that had been a major contributor in earlier times, before the humans had figured out how to create a rainbow of hair dyes – nor was it the ever-present pair of dark glasses on his face – although that did stand out occasionally, depending on the light levels. No, it was the way he moved.

Crowley had the body of someone who used to be a snake, and whose corporation had never quite forgotten it. His spine would bend at odd angles, his hips would sway in a way that almost defied physics, and his legs looked like they’d never quite learned how to walk properly. Six thousand years of living in human form, and Crowley still looked more like a snake when he moved than the tattoo on his face did.

Except, it wasn’t quite six thousand years. Not consistently.

Because when Eden was razed and all celestial beings – angels fallen and not – lost the ability to show their wings on Earth, Crowley kept his snake form. He was still able to transform at will, become the thing forced on him by his rapid descent from Heaven, and use it to curl up tight in on himself or slither away through tiny gaps. It was a defence mechanism of sorts, he supposed, and he hated it.

No, that wasn’t fair. He didn’t _hate_ being a snake – he rather enjoyed it, most of the time. He liked the feeling of the warm sun on his scales, and often took to napping like that when he knew no one would see him. He liked the sensation of the ground against his belly, of the smoothness in the way he could move around like that. He liked the shapes he could make in that form, looping himself into a ball or draping himself artfully across branches or furniture. What he _didn’t_ like was what it represented.

The thing about Falling was that it changed you, in ways too numerous and too horrifying to think about all at once. One of the things it changed was vulnerabilities – no longer was immortality certain for eternity, but now it could be ended by no more than a drop of holy water. The demons, of course, had found a counter for that. They could not solve it, and did not have the imagination to make anything new, but when they finally hit the surface of the new place they called Hell, they found the fire there particularly effective at the opposite destruction. All the immortals became mortal when half of them Fell, that was the strange thing.

But another thing Falling did was change your being at a fundamental level. Whereas the celestials Upstairs had their bodies decorated with marks of their angelic nature – gold leaf or silver, soft or bright colours, in freckles or marble cracks or across joints or on keratin – the creatures Downstairs were given a very different aesthetic. Brightly-coloured hair shrivelled and took on a strange new shape. Silvered teeth became sharp and surprisingly difficult to speak through. Dappled gold on cheeks swelled and became sticky, uncomfortable, and alive. Swirls of multi-coloured angelic beauty shrank and condensed and drained to be dark as Hell.

Most demons had an animal they were closely associated with. All demons who had Fallen did, at least – some of the creatures in the celestial basement were never angels in the first place, but that’s a different story altogether. Most of these animals were considered scary or dirty or strange by the first humans – though whether the associations came about because of some knowledge of demons, or whether they were chosen for demons because of the known future associations, God only knows. Flies, toads, moths, scorpions – all manner of insects, arachnids, reptiles, and amphibians. Birds and mammals were rarely on the list, presumably because of their proximity to humanity in terms of empathy, but there were a few exceptions. And, of course, snakes.

Crowley’s snake form was a reminder of everything he’d lost in the Fall. Everything he’d become (through what he still wasn’t convinced was entirely deserved means), and everything he would never be able to stop being.

He hated that this source of comfort, this respite from the angled gangliness of his human corporation, was also such a firm pointer towards his Fallen nature. He hated that even his human aesthetic was bound to it, the snake in him peering through his slashed yellow eyes, showing itself through his scattering of black scales, making itself heard through verbal tics he couldn’t quite eradicate. He hated the shame that came with his looks, the fear humans felt when they saw his eyes, the disgust they showed when they caught a glimpse of the reptilian parts of his skin.

Most of all, he hated what Aziraphale must think of him for all this.

The angel had made his thoughts quite clear on Crowley’s appearance way back in the early days. They’d been stood before three crosses, wincing at the sounds of pain, and the demon had just dared to say that the demonic name the angel had first been told was not the one that fitted right.

“Well, you were a _snake_.” Perhaps Aziraphale hadn’t meant to put so much derision into the word, but it sounded harsh and heavy to Crowley, and it bounced around his skull decades, centuries, millennia later while he was trying to sleep. There were certain words and phrases that often did, and he could do nothing to stop them, even if he tried to use logic to scare them away.

Of course, everything came to a head with Armageddon. Now there were far worse things than _snake_ flying around his mind – things involving fire, lots of fire, and an empty, horrifying sense of not-here-ness, of intense, deep loss.

The dreams kept him up at night, occasionally, but were soothed by the calming presence of the angel next to him. Aziraphale would stroke his hair, hold him, whisper gentle things in his ear until the stupid, unnecessary blood stopped pumping at rocket speed through his veins and he remembered how to make this body breathe. The angel was always there when he needed him, usually sat up reading by the moonlight that would have been too weak for human eyes.

He was always there, always comforting, always safe. And yet he hated Crowley’s demonic snake-iness just as much as the demon himself did.

That was why he hid it.

He didn’t _mean_ to, not really. It wasn’t out of anything malicious or duplicitous. It was more shame, really, than anything else. But it also didn’t ever come up. If by some strange coincidence Crowley would have been able to get them out of a tight spot by turning into a snake, he would have done – with much apology and self-deprecation, of course, but he would have done it. But it hadn’t ever come up, and it never seemed like a good time to mention something so disgraceful, so he hadn’t.

Which was why the demon had never changed form in Aziraphale’s presence, or anywhere that he thought the angel might walk in on him. It was only ever at the Mayfair flat, or out in the desert, back in the day, or when he knew for sure Aziraphale was on another continent. Never in the Bentley, though that would have been nice. Never outside in London, which would cause too much attention anyway. And never, never in the bookshop.

Well. Almost never.

Crowley wasn’t quite sure of the sequence of thoughts that led him to such a reckless action. But it was cool outside, the sort of not-quite-cold freshness that made his skin crawl, and it was warm in the bookshop, specifically in a patch of sunlight magnified by the domed skylight.

Aziraphale had gone out, looking for something specific at the British Library, and he’d promised he’d be back in time for dinner, but what with the time of year and the angel’s tendency to get distracted by books and history, not to mention both of those things together, Crowley knew it’d be dark before he got home. By which time any warmth would have gone from the snake’s scales, and he would have woken up, shaken away the grogginess, and had time to remember how to both look and behave like a functional human being again. So it was relatively risk-free. Or so he thought.

(Perhaps somewhere in there had been a deeply-hidden, long-buried desire for Aziraphale to know the truth. Perhaps the recklessness was a subconscious plea to be known. Or perhaps there was some higher divine nudging in there, just for the drama of it.)

The angel had left, and the demon had locked the door and shut the blinds behind him, and then he’d transformed in the bookshop for the very first time, and enjoyed the sensation of the flooring under his belly, and revelled in the joy of not having to deal with limbs anymore, and moved over to the warm patch of ground and curled up and went to sleep.

The tinkle of the shop bell was what first disturbed his deep slumber, but what actually woke him was the shocked gasp the angel let out when he saw him.

Crowley started up out of his nap in shock, hissing involuntarily, and transformed back into his human corporation instantly. He grabbed wildly at the sunglasses that he’d left casually on a nearby shelf, and shoved them on as quickly and firmly as he could.

“Azsss... Angel, I...”

The demon was shaking, actually shaking, and he didn’t know what to do. He wanted to run, wanted to bolt out the door and never come back, wanted to get in the Bentley and drive off to Alpha Centauri on his own after all, wanted to burrow into Aziraphale’s arms and never come out. But, well. That was the problem, wasn’t it?

“ _Crowley_.”

His voice was far too soft, far too full of fondness and affection and... and _love_.

The angel took a cautious step or two forward, eyes shining. Crowley felt trapped – not by Aziraphale, who had now paused a few metres away, careful not to overcrowd him, but by the situation, by whatever physical or metaphysical reason that enabled him to shift between his two forms. Whatever _that_ was, was trapping him. Trapping him in his demon-ness: unquestionably Fallen, inescapably _different_ from Aziraphale. And now the angel knew.

He tried to tell himself it didn’t matter. Tried to tell himself he could accept Aziraphale’s pity, the _I still love you_ that was sure to come. After all, it was the ‘love’ part that mattered, right? Not the pitying way he would look at him, not the sadness hidden behind those declarations of loyalty, not the ‘despite your flaws’ the whole thing would entail.

Because that was the problem, really. He knew the angel would hate that part of him just as certainly as Crowley himself hated it. Except Crowley didn’t _only_ hate it, because sometimes feelings and emotions just don’t make sense, and he loved being a snake, even if he hated the reasons behind it. Which is why he couldn’t bear to think of Aziraphale’s pitying reaction.

And now the angel knew. And Crowley was about to feel that searing pity first-hand.

“Why didn’t you tell me you can still transform?”

“I, err, um, well,” Crowley blustered, struggling to figure out what to say. “I just, well it never really came up, and I, uh, it never seemed like a good time, I –”

He stopped, and took a breath, focusing hard on a spot on the floor to the right of Aziraphale. He’d never been particularly good with words, but he knew the importance of them. He didn’t know how to get everything he wanted to say across right now, but he knew it was important not to say the wrong thing. He didn’t want the angel _crying_ on him or anything. So he settled on silence, for the time being.

His eyes darted up to look at Aziraphale.

The angel smiled, slightly sadly, and Crowley could feel something tightening around his heart at the pity he knew was coming. He set his mouth in a tight line, bracing himself for impact, and thanked _Somebody_ that he’d had the sense to keep his glasses nearby to hide behind now.

“No, I suppose there is no perfect time to say something like that.”

Crowley nodded slightly, trying to stop his hands from clenching into fists. He watched Aziraphale from behind the dark lenses in much the same way a cornered mouse must watch a pampered housecat, uncertain if the predator will act on its deep-buried instincts.

“I’m glad.”

Crowley’s head jerked up at that, narrowing his eyes at the angel.

“Not that you didn’t say anything, I mean,” the angel clarified. “Just that you have that... outlet. It must be quite freeing, I should think. Like being able to stretch your wings...”

It was a similar sensation, Crowley thought, but not exactly the same. For him, at least, getting his wings out felt like unbinding something that had been pulled taught and held too tightly in place – it was a relief, an ached-after pleasure. Taking on his snake form was, if anything, more of a comfort than a release – he didn’t itch for it in the same way he itched to stretch his cooped-up extra limbs – but the feeling of being in one’s natural state, of feeling calm and content and complete, was certainly the same. Often, in fact, the only way he was able to cure any aching for his wings to be free, like they had in Eden, was to become that other form he had been in the Garden; the tight feeling at his back never followed him as a snake. He didn’t like to imagine how uncomfortable it must be for Aziraphale, who had no secondary release like that.

The angel took another half-step forward and smiled again, his eyes searching the black lenses for a hint of the yellow eyes beneath. Then he opened his mouth and continued the thought.

“And I’m glad that you didn’t lose that part of yourself.”

He couldn’t take it. Crowley made some strange, involuntary noise in his throat, then turned and strode away a few paces, crossing his arms defensively and refusing to look back at Aziraphale.

“Crowley?”

He didn’t turn. He’d thought for a moment that he could manage this, but it was too much. He’d never been that great at understanding or dealing with emotions anyway – it had taken him a few thousand years to realise how much he loved Aziraphale, after all – but now it was all too much, too difficult to comprehend, and he could feel himself shutting down. He just wanted it to stop, everything to freeze, for Aziraphale to just forget the conversation and invite him out for a quick bite to eat, not keep talking and get closer and closer to saying something Crowley was going to wish he had never heard.

“Crowley, my dear, I’m sorry if... I’m sorry that this is a sensitive subject for you. I just – I want you to know you don’t have to hide yourself from me, okay? You don’t have to curl up somewhere you don’t think I’ll find you just so you can transform. I really... I really don’t mind.”

And there it was. _I don’t mind._ He was trying, oh, he was really trying, but it was still there, still seeping through the cracks. Pity, in all its angelic glory. Crowley had to bite his tongue to stop himself from snapping, but he couldn’t help the hiss-like growl that escaped his lips.

He silently cursed that, too. He hated how betraying even this version of his body was – the hissing, the sibilance that surfaced when he was stressed, the scattering of scales that still grazed his skin, his goddamned slitted _eyes_. Everything about him that wasn’t blatantly _human_ was blatantly _snake_ , and that was the root of the problem – any sign he wasn’t human was a sign he was a demon, and every one of those could be traced back to the form he could still, for some unfathomable reason, take.

Crowley couldn’t see Aziraphale, but he could tell the angel had noticed his reaction. He felt the ethereal being step closer again. “I mean it my dear, I really do.”

“Angel...” Crowley turned around now, unable to stop himself. His arms remained tight against his torso, still fending off Aziraphale’s words, his endless pity. “You don’t have to.”

The angel frowned. “I don’t have to what?”

Crowley sighed, frustrated. He was going to make him say it, wasn’t he? He floundered for a moment, no words coming out of his moving mouth, and then he sighed again. _No escaping it. Just bite the bullet._

“Pretend, for my sake,” he said, and turned sideways so he wasn’t presented with the full force of whatever Aziraphale’s reaction would be. “You don’t have to see me if you don’t want to, I’ll make sure you’re away, I’ll hide, I – I mean, I didn’t expect you to see me this time, but I’ll be more careful, I’ll –”

He was stopped by a hand on his arm, stilling him into silence. Aziraphale had stepped right up to him, now, and was using the point of contact to turn Crowley to face him. They were almost chest-to-chest.

“May I?”

Aziraphale had taken his hand off the demon’s arm and now had both of his own raised slightly, gesturing. Crowley hesitated, then nodded. He’d never been able to deny his angel anything.

The glasses were lifted off delicately and placed down neatly on the nearest available surface. Blue eyes met sulphur ones, and the former smiled gently. 

“You don’t have to hide from me,” Aziraphale said, slowly, deliberately. “I don’t _want_ you to hide from me.”

A short, consonant-heavy sound rose up, unbidden, in Crowley’s throat.

The angel took a deep breath, then ploughed on, never wavering in his eye contact with the demon before him.

“I love you, Crowley. I love every part of you. And I don’t want you to hide any of it from me, not anymore. _Our own side_ , you said. And _together_ , you said. I want us to be together, wholly together, without shame, without secrets, without fear. And I know a lot of that has been my fault, that we haven’t been able to do it sooner, but now that that’s done with, now that I’m _here_... I don’t want there to be anything else stopping us. I don’t want you to feel like we can’t... like you... like I’m...”

It was Aziraphale’s turn to flounder, uncertain of how to express what he wanted to say.

Crowley shook his head, unable to make the words come. _Please, angel. Stop. It’s okay, I can take it. I’ve been dealing with this for a while, you don’t need to lie to me. Just stop. I’ll go, I’ll hide, it’s okay._

The demon’s eyes flicked to the safety of the dark lenses, put down just out of easy reach. Aziraphale followed his gaze, and his face crumpled slightly when he realised what Crowley was looking at.

“Oh, my dearest. Please, I don’t want you to feel like that. You shouldn’t have to wear those when it’s just us. Please. I love you, Crowley. Please let me see your eyes.”

The demon had shut them tight as the angel spoke, and now he found that he didn’t want to open them again. He shuddered slightly, trying his hardest to hold back tears.

“But you hate them,” he managed, and was thankful that it sounded more like a whisper than a sob.

There was silence for a moment, and Crowley would have thought that the angel had vanished if he couldn’t feel his proximity. Aziraphale didn’t move, didn’t speak, didn’t _breathe_ for several seconds.

Then he said, in a voice somehow both soft and hard at the same time, “What?”

Crowley shook his head, eyes still tight shut, refusing to believe even for an instant that the angel could harbour anything other than revulsion at any reminder that he was a demon.

“I’ve seen the way you react to them. Always have.” His voice was small, pathetic, but right now he didn’t care. “It’s like you forget they’re there. And then I take off my sunglasses and you...” Crowley shuddered, and this time it definitely _was_ a sob. “You hate them.”

“Please, my darling, please look at me. That’s not true, not even for a second. Please, please just open your eyes.”

It took him a moment to summon the willpower, the bravery, to do so. But then he did, and realised the angel was close to crying, too.

Aziraphale opened his mouth, his face the picture of honesty and earnestness. He stared into Crowley’s eyes as he spoke, gaze flicking between the golden irises, now helplessly expanded to block out any humanising whites. The angel's own pale blue eyes were flooded with love, and the words were almost secondary to the depth of meaning that one look offered.

“Your eyes are the most beautiful thing about you. How could you ever think that I would hate them?”

Crowley’s mind stopped working.

He became incapable of speech for a solid five minutes, but Aziraphale let him work it out, let him garble nonsense syllables, let him hover between belief and terror, let him slowly, slowly get his brain back in order. The whole time, the angel stood there, so close, ready to fold Crowley into his arms at a second’s notice. The whole time, he watched his beloved demon’s face, gazing at the eyes, lingering on the tattoo, and never once flinching at the unbidden elongated sibilants that escaped the occult being’s forked tongue.

“You...” Crowley whispered finally. “You like them?”

“Of course I do, my dearest. I _love_ them. They’re gorgeous. How on Earth could I hate them?”

His voice betrayed no hint of a lie or an exaggeration. His soft face was kindly but honest, not pitying. _He was..._ Crowley hardly dared believe it. _Could he be... telling the truth?_

“Because they’re snake eyes,” he said, hoping that was enough explanation. “’M a demon. ’S a reminder.”

Aziraphale shook his head slowly. “Darling, the first thing I knew about you was that you were a snake. That’s how I first saw you. That’s how we met. How could I ever hate something that makes you who you are?”

Crowley stared at him for another few seconds. Then all his resolve crumbled, and he practically fell into the angel’s strong, reliable arms, and allowed himself to be held, tight and safe, basking in the glow of angelic love.

At some point, they ended up on the sofa, wrapped around one another, Crowley allowing all the pent-up fear and shame to tumble out of him in shaking gasps and tears. Aziraphale wiped his cheeks and played with his hair, holding him and soothing him until he’d let it all out.

At some point, Crowley sat up, and tried for a smile, and Aziraphale leant forwards and kissed him on both eyelids, and told him he was beautiful.

At some point, perhaps a long time later, an angel and a demon sat on that same sofa together. The angel was reading in the fading daylight, and the demon was coiled around him in the form of a large black snake. They were happy and comfortable together, and the sunglasses lay long-forgotten on a table by the door to the outside world.

And at that point, they were happy.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Please do leave a comment if you want, and if you feel like reblogging this fic over on tumblr, you can find it in full [here](https://freyjawriter24.tumblr.com/post/612840355561422848/snek-boi)!


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